Across The Pond
by danajacobs13
Summary: When a young Canadian woman asks for the help of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson in what she believes to be a murder case, the duo do not give up the opportunity to head to the true north, strong and free. But can Holmes and Watson battle winter storms, rough seas, threats and their new companion and still come out on top together?
1. Morning: Hateful - John

I was frustrated, and doing a poor job of containing it. I was honestly afraid my eyeballs were going to pop out of their sockets. I'm a doctor, God dammit, not a bloody writer. I smacked the backspace key over and over again and then angrily watched the little blinking line in the blank text box. Sometimes this blogging thing was really difficult. Especially when Sherlock always speaks up about how he didn't agree with this or wasn't flattered by that. But I know he likes them. Otherwise, he wouldn't read them.

"You're still at it?"

Speak of the devil.

I breathe out heavily and turn to glare at him. "It's not as easy as it would appear to be, Sherlock." I tell him, returning my gaze to my laptop. I watched him as he silently walked up behind me in the reflection of the screen. His somewhat ratty t-shirt, striped pajama pants and long blue housecoat seeming to be the outfit of the day. During these sorts of times, when there isn't a case, Sherlock doesn't seem to care much for dressing differently each day. "Boring." To quote him when I made the mistake of asking about it. He either lays around on the sofa thinking, or plays in the kitchen with the head in the fridge and eyeballs in the microwave. And of course, he whines often. I'm afraid that is he doesn't get a case soon, he'll relapse and not even three nicotine patches will be the answer to that problem. I continue to watch his reflection. He continues to stand there like a statue. "Well, aren't you going to eat some breakfast or something?" I ask, annoyed with him breathing over my shoulder.

"Sorry, what?" He asks, his slender index finger reaching over me towards the screen. "The fact that you won't fix that counter is distracting me."

I bite my tongue. Maybe I was satisfied with 1895 hits. Was that so bad? "Eat, Sherlock," I repeat, "breakfast, as in the food you have in the morning."

He grunts. "Eating is dull," he says, shuffling away towards the sofa. He walks right on top of the coffee table (like I have asked him a thousand times not to do), and then flops down on the cushions.

I stare at him over the laptop for a moment. _'Make him breakfast,'_ I think. But he should make his own bloody food! I'm the one that does all the shopping; he could at least make a cup of tea. I look at him slightly curled up, facing the wall for another second. "My God," I mutter, standing and stomping into the kitchen. I throw a bagel in the toaster and start making two cups of coffee.

"Could you get my phone, John."

"I'm making your breakfast, Sherlock."

"It's on the coffee table."

I stand with my arms crossed. He doesn't roll his head around to see my anger. I grumble as I make my way to the coffee table, snatch the phone up, and then place it somewhat aggressively into his hand hovering in the air. Sherlock pulls it down towards his face and fiddles away while I go attend the toaster that just popped. As I'm spreading butter along the sides, Sherlock smacks his hand down on the coffee table, leaving the phone there to quiver for half a second. "This morning is so hateful, John!" He exclaims loudly.

I walk over to him, plate in one hand and mug in the other. "Lestrade still got nothing for you?"

The spite on Sherlock's face answers the question well enough. He takes a bite of the bagel much like a shark would take a bite of a seal, and then a long sip of coffee. It was, actually, a somewhat hateful morning. There was a thick fog through London, giving off a depressing state, and the rain fell constantly and hard on the streets. There weren't many people walking about, and only the occasional car or taxi would slip past the window. The heavy rain smacked the glass of the windows in such large quantities that it ran down much like a waterfall.

I sit down at my desk again, rubbing my hands over my eyes. What does a blogger that writes about the adventures of Sherlock Holmes do when Sherlock Holmes is angrily ripping apart a bagel?

In the moment that thought passed through my mind, my stomach seemed to fall. Odd. As a soldier I would sometimes get gut feelings and then have some crazy patient come through that day, or feel the death of someone that took a bullet to the chest, but I'd never had it since then, never since my feet touched ground in England once more. Did it mean a case was coming? Did it mean something had happened to Harry? I look up at Sherlock yet again. He was sitting lazily on the sofa, drinking his coffee and beating his fingers against the arm. You could tell how much it was bothering. 15 days without a case, even a small one, was starting to worry me. Sometimes my 'stupidity' was enough to distract Sherlock from that, but this time, it wasn't. It was like he was rotting away, or about to implode on himself, and the one thing he needed was just brushing his fingertips but he couldn't grasp it. It was if he was reaching with all he had, like his life depended on it (and in a way, it did), and right as he would try and wrap his hands around it, a little string would pull it back, and Sherlock would have to start reaching all over again. You could see the pain in his sea coloured eyes, you could hear it in his voice when he complained.

Sherlock stood to add his dirty dishes to the ever growing pile in the sink when Mrs. Hudson knocked on the door. "Morning, boys," she said, just shuffling in past the doorframe.

"Is there something we can do for you, Mrs. Hudson?" I ask, smiling.

"Oh no, dear," she said, shaking her head and then gesturing over her shoulder. "There's a young girl here, says she's looking for Sherlock."

You could practically hear his chocolate brown curls whipping around. Looks like the gut feeling was for a case after all. I glanced over at him in the kitchen. He nodded. "Alright," I said. "Send her up, then."

Sherlock's housecoat billowed out behind him like a cape as he swooped into the living room, taking his usual seat, and then pressed his palms together and rested his fingertips against his lips. I pulled a chair in from the kitchen, placing it between our two chairs. I sit down and then stand right back up as a soaking wet girl with delicately freckled skin walked somewhat timidly into the flat. "Hi," she said, her accented voice somewhat quiet as I strode towards her.

"Hello there," I said, smiling at her, "John Watson." She was around five foot three, and as I shook her hand I could feel cold droplets of rain on the back of her fingers. Her teeth seemed to chatter slightly from the freezing drench, and I gestured towards the seat reserved for her. She sat and hers eyes darted to Sherlock for a fraction of a second and then were fixed back on me. I assumed that having him try to read your life story with that intense stare of his would be kind of intimidating.

I took my seat across from her and grabbed the notepad and pen on the table adjacent to my chair, flipping to a blank page. I glanced at Sherlock. His gaze was still darting up and down her figure.

"That's nasty weather we're having," I start. I was still waiting for Sherlock to give the green light on this client.

She shrugs, "It rains most of the year back home," she replies, giving a small, closed mouth smile. "I like it, actually."

I smile back. "So, you're from Ameri-"

"Canada," Sherlock interrupts. "Tell me, and _please, _make it interesting."

She holds her sight on Sherlock now. "For nearly a decade now, there have been severed limbs washing up on the shores of beaches, rivers, sometimes turning up in the mailboxes of politicians all over the country," she starts. "And people go missing a lot more often than usual. Kidnapped, abducted, that sort of thing. I think that the limbs and the abductions are linked, but the police won't have any of it. They say they've got the military investigating, but I know that's not true."

Sherlock's eyes narrow. "How do you know that's not true?"

She hesitates for a moment. "I have a friend in the Forces," she answers.

I wince. Giving out information to civilians is not taken lightly in any military. It must have been a close friend.

"He's not your friend," Sherlock tells her.

Here we go.

"Excuse me?" She replies.

Sherlock leans forward in his chair. "He is not your friend; he is much more than that. You are in love with him, you have been for years, it's easy to tell, and to start you wouldn't give an exact name when you said where you got your information, so protecting your source because you don't want him to get in trouble, you also hesitated before answering, again, you were questioning yourself and whether he would be safe. You are concerned about him because he is a military man and you often don't know where he is or if he's alive for that matter, your pupils dilated as you answered, so you are scared because you don't know that much. You haven't seen him in a while, only talked on the phone or written letters, because the picture of the young man in military uniform sticking out of your jacket pocket looks like it's about a year and a half old, and it has fingerprints and is folded in a few places so you carry it with you a lot because you miss him, and he doesn't contact you as much as you wish he would, perhaps because he's a busy man but more likely because he's writing to his girlfriend. Did I miss anything?"

I rub my forehead. The shock on her face was somewhat painful to see. "His name," she replies.

"Adam," Sherlock states. "It's written at corner of the photograph I can see." He stands up and sticks out his arm. "Sherlock Holmes. I'll take the case."

She stands slowly and shakes his hand, "Dana Jacobs." She says. "And thank you."

I hand Dana a cup of tea and she smiles at me, "Thanks." She gingerly takes a sip, and then wraps all ten fingers around the cup. Sherlock takes a sip of his own tea while mucking around on my laptop, finding the next flight that can get us to Vancouver. I told him that if he asked Mycroft he could probably fly us there right now but he quickly shot that idea down and has been pouting ever since.

I take a moment to review our new client. Her medium length hair that was darkened by the rain was slowly drying to a red blond, with small little waves running from root to tip. Her skin was almost as pale as Sherlock's, but where she lacked colour she had freckles, not just on her nose and cheeks, but all over her face, a few on her chest, and some on her hands. She wore no makeup, and her bright green eyes were piercing but warm at the same time. She wore a black leather jacket with slightly long sleeves, a forest green V-neck shirt underneath that, skinny jeans and deep brown combat boots. She almost looked like the classic feminine badass from movies, except her face was kinder, and she was shorter. And I knew plenty about being short.

Even though I knew Sherlock would get pissed off when I asked these questions, I needed to make some sort of damn conversation. "So you're what, 20, 21?" I ask.

She shakes her head, "19." She replies.

I'm taken back slightly, "Wow," I muster, "that's uh… that's young."

She laughs, "Don't worry about it," she replies. "I know. I always seem older to others."

"I knew you were 19," Sherlock chipped in. I give him a glance that said _'Shut it.'_

"Are you in University, then?" I continue.

"Yeah, University of British Columbia."

"What are you studying?"

"Forensics."

I really hope Sherlock doesn't think she's like Anderson.

Sherlock stands up and flips the laptop screen down, handing it back to me. "Pack your bags, John," he tells me. "Plane leaves at midnight."

I huff as I place the laptop on the small table beside me, "You couldn't have picked a more decent hour?" I remark.

"The time change will let us be awake for longer, more time for the crime."

"Right, because sleeping isn't important at all."

"Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, John."

"God dammit, Sherlock!"


	2. Cabs and Conversation - Sherlock

Upon our arrival at the airport and after Ms. Jacobs had stepped out of the cab, John grabbed the sleeve of my coat and gave me a somewhat distressed look. "Maybe you should try having a normal conversation with her," he suggested, pointing at Dana as she waited a few paces away from the car, standing as still as stone in the rain, and making no action to protect herself from it like the other people bustling around her.

"Why would I do that?" I ask John, wondering why he would take an interest in my social life or how I wish to interact with people.

"To get to know her, Sherlock, like most people do."

"But I know everything I need already," I reply.

He stares at me with a frustrated and disappointed gaze, and then ushers me out of the cab. The three of us make our way to International Departures.

Customs was smooth although the security precautions were ridiculous and done all incorrectly, but nonetheless we ended up waiting at our terminal for our flight to Toronto, and then on to Vancouver. I took a minute to observe the people around us, picking out a few accountants, six tourists and a dentist.

I decided it would probably be acceptable to text Lestrade and inform him of my absence. "John," I say, leaning towards him slightly. "Pass me my phone, would you."

There was no immediate reaction. I turn only to find John in what appears to be (but likely isn't) an engaging conversation with Dana about something, I really don't care that much. But John _had _asked me to try and be a part of conversation with her. I listen and discover that they are discussing what accommodations were to be arranged for John and I. I personally rather dislike hotels, the poor quality of them and the positively despicable staff. John brought up the idea, and I was about to remind him how terrible of an idea it was, but Dana beat me to it.

"That won't be necessary, really." She says. "I have an extra room. One of you can take mine, the other the spare, I can sleep on the couch."

"No, no, one of us can sleep on the sofa," John replies, gesturing towards him and I, but I'm not so sure I'm willing to make the sacrifice.

"It's not an issue," she assures us. She gives a small smile that can only mean that she really doesn't like arguing and that the result has been decided.

The two of them twitter on for an hour about things that nobody cared about (how Dana had heard of me, where she lived, if she was single, which seemed a little bit aggressive from John, and I certainly hope he realizes that she isn't interested in that way), until they get on the topic of her studies. Brain work, that is something I can engage in. She's going into her second year of University, and works part-time at a Greek restaurant not far from her house as a waitress. While she explains to John how her father is the CEO of an oil company in Alberta and her mother is a successful lawyer, which I already know, and that they are paying for her studies and her house, I get a reply from Lestrade.

_Canada? God help me…_

I'm sure he can manage just a week or so without me. Maybe.

We board the plane, and John and Dana are still chatting, laughing, smiling. I don't understand how such things can be so amusing if it's utterly pointless. John had asked me to try, though. In a way, I want to, but it still seems irrelevant. It looks like I'll be getting my chance, though, because Dana will have the window seat, and I will be seated in the middle, pressed between her and John. My carry-on bag was weighed down with books and number puzzles that I was planning on using for the flight, and they unfortunately would go to waste. Maybe she would fall asleep and I could amuse myself.

The three of us sat, John read the emergency evacuation procedure pamphlet and Dana stared out the window into the dark. I glanced over her shoulder and found nothing particularly intriguing.

"What are you looking at?" I ask her, trying to sound more curious than uninterested.

She doesn't break her gaze from the window and beyond. "Nothing," she replies. "Merely concluding a thought I had a few years ago."

A thinker? I hardly believe so. "What thought is that?" I inquire, counting the dozen or so that they could be inside my head.

"The lights." she says, turning her gaze to me. The dim cabin and the dark outside made her eyes a blue grey. "A city is unique by day, certainly. The culture, the atmosphere, the citizens. But how different is every city at night, really? The lights are the same, the sleep is the same. People are like that, too. We think we are unique in the light, but we overlook the dark, where we are all the same. Impaired by the night, asleep and dreaming."

I consider her theory. For the most part, she was correct. I look over at John, reading the final panel of the pamphlet. He would likely nod off after takeoff. His eyes showed the fatigue he was suffering from mentally and physically. Some sleep would do him good.

After a few minutes, the plane lifted off the runway and soared over the lights of London, which did appear from high in the sky, to be just another city just like any other.

As predicted, John fell asleep about thirty minutes into the flight. I lay my coat across his lap, his blond hair falling forward off his forehead slightly. He snoozed silently in his seat, his head rolled onto his left shoulder. His eyes were moving quickly under his eyelids. REM sleep, he must be dreaming.

I looked ahead at the small screen playing some movie or television show. I didn't want to watch it so I didn't plug in the little headphones. I glance quickly over at Dana, who did have her headphones in, but enjoying music of her own rather than visual entertainment. She turns to me right as I was looking at her. She says nothing, then leans forward and looks at John, peacefully asleep.

"So what is it with you and him?" She asks somewhat quietly.

I stare back at her. "Pardon me?" I reply.

She puts a finger over her lips for me to be quieter. I glance around the cabin. The majority of the passengers are asleep, like John. "I'm sure you're tired of being asked, but I read his blog. That's how I learned about you, how I knew you could help me." she says again. "You two seem closer than just colleagues. Or friends, even. And you should see how he writes so admirably about you. So what is your relationship with him?" Her soft eyes have returned to their brilliant green again under the small light on the ceiling over our seats, the only ones on in the dark plane.

"He is my colleague, my flat mate, and my closest friend." I tell her. She looks at me warmly but I can see what she's doing. She is trying to read me, like I can read so many. I sit mostly relaxed while she continues to look straight in my eyes, one corner of her lips slightly curled up. "What is it?" I ask her when she shakes her head slightly.

She holds her eyes on mine. "You may know a lot about science and logic and chemistry, Mr. Holmes." She cocks her head to the side gently, "But I know a lot about love."

"We are not a couple," I assure her, frowning.

"Neither are Adam and I," she retorts. "But I love him."

Now I return the eye contact. Dark circles, and a little mascara that looks like it hasn't been refreshed or removed, face slightly pale and causing her freckles to stand out a bit more. She's been awake for a day and a bit by now, probably worried about the case, working, attending classes and also flying to England and now back home. But she still seems alert, ready to go if need be.

"Sherlock, please," I tell her after a moment.

"Sorry?"

"You called me Mr. Holmes, Sherlock, please."

She smiles at me, "And you called me Ms. Jacobs in the cab," she replies. "Dana. Please."

I give a small smile back. She is quite intelligent, a considerable amount more so than any of our previous clients. "So how did you find John's blog?" I ask her.

She shrugs, "I'm still new to forensics," she says. "I did a little bit of research on some of the best in the field. The blog was near the top of my search."

"Did you find my website?"

"Yes," she smiles, "fascinating, really. Rather disappointed that you took down the report on tobacco ash though, I never got a chance to read it."

"Apologies," I tell her, and she laughs quietly. She turns to look out the window, her hair sliding off her shoulder. It had been cut recently, the ends all around the same length and in healthy condition. The red blond is her natural hair colour and very unique as well, changing depending on the light.

"The stars seem so different the closer you get to them," she remarks. I glance quickly out the window myself. They were still stars, just the same. "There was a time when I was younger," she says aloud, and I'm not sure if she's speaking to me or thinking to herself. "When I wanted to be an astronaut. And I thought that I would just fly up into space and float around and be free." She looks back at me. Obviously telling a story. I guess I should act somewhat interested. "Kind of something I've always wanted to be. Free. Away from large crowds, independent. I like the idea of going somewhere even if there's no good reason for it. Being in the same place for too long, or somewhere that's bleak, or in the city, it just gets so…" her nose crinkles slightly as she thinks for the right word to use, distorting the freckles.

"Boring," I submit. She nods. I look back at John. He was in a deep sleep now, his fingers curled around my coat. I brush a bit of hair off of his eye delicately so not to wake him. I look back to Dana and find that she was fighting off sleep herself, her head falling gently and eyelids fluttering. "You should sleep," I tell her.

She meets my gaze with her tired eyes. "I'll be fine," she argues, but I shake my head quickly.

"We're going to need your help, John and I," I tell her. "We don't know the country, we don't know the officers, and we don't know the people. You do, and you have a sharp mind. But it will only be its sharpest if you _get some sleep._" I whisper.

She gives a small smile, and eventually falls asleep with her earphones still in. I reach over and pause her music, then carefully take the earphones out and rest them in a neat coil on her lap. There's still a good seven or eight hours left until we refuel in Toronto. The man, woman and child in the seat across from us are a family. Husband and wife are having issues, financial mainly. Divorce likely within the next three years. Child is eight years old and looks like his father and is spoiled rotten. Average family. Boring.

After trying to figure out the people ahead of us but not succeeding because I couldn't see enough over and between the seats, I realized that I had done exactly as John had asked. Gotten to know her in a normal way, through conversation. Of course, I would have learned much more had I been left to my own devices, but the conversation was different. She was smart, thoughtful and understanding, kind of like John. I wondered how he would react when I told him I had done it, managed to do something 'average' for once. Maybe he would be proud? I hope it pleases him.

The one thing I learned about Dana through our conversation that struck me was that she was good, and she knew. Very smart, indeed. She could read the body language, my face, just my eyes, even. I knew the chemistry of affection through science and she knew it from experience, from not only seeing it in others but feeling it in herself.

I look back to the picture in her pocket. Curious, I softly tug the edge until I have it removed and examine it. Young man, 18 years old, full Canadian army uniform in what looks like a base somewhere in the Middle East. Tan face, strong, short brown hair, tall, green eyes and a smile. It looks like the picture was taken when he wasn't aware, the angle hitting the side of his face slightly and he wasn't looking directly at the camera. Laughing, maybe. I read the full sentence at the bottom of the picture.

**Captain Adam Underhill, Base, September 30, 2010**

I turn the picture over in my hands and find a folded piece of lined paper taped to the back. I peel it off gently, and the condition of the back of the photo indicates that it gets removed regularly. The paper was slightly yellowed, crumpled and had some awkward folds in it. I pulled the corners and unfolded the paper. There was writing filling it on both sides, cramped so it would fit, and in what was clearly a man's handwriting. I glance quickly at Dana again. This couldn't be right, but I really wanted to know. I wanted to understand why she has loved this boy for years even though he appears not to love her back. I find the beginning of the letter.

_ 'Dear Dana,_

_ First, thanks for the socks. Really, sending some for the entire squad is amazing. We took them with us on a recent mission; the five other guys with me wouldn't shut up about them. Thank you._

_ It's been dry and hot here. Life in the desert, I suppose. It's hard to stay hydrated, especially when we have to leave base and take our own water and then find our own when we run out. We had to carry one of the guys back once because he was vomiting and having hallucinations. Lucky for us, that's the worst we've had for our squad. One guy in squad three was shot a couple of days ago. I didn't even know his first name, but I saw him kicking a ball around with some other guys sometimes at base. I always think about you when they're playing soccer. Remembering how much you miss the game makes me remember how much I miss you. Really, I do._

_ Also, a second thanks for the picture you sent along with the socks. I carry it with me everywhere. I tucked one of me in here for you from over here. Do what you like with it, but if you carried it with you too, it would mean a lot. Nobody knows I have it with me 24/7, but I showed it to the guys when the package came. They keep on talking about you, I think some of them think you're hot, it's almost like you've got a fan club over here! Don't worry; I'm a part of it, too._

_ I can't really tell you what we're doing exactly, except for everything that you already know from the papers and such, but I do hear about what the other Corps are doing all over the world, and I haven't heard anything about that case back home. I doubt they've put the troops onto it because there isn't really a direct threat to the majority of the public. But if people keep disappearing, then who knows? Maybe I'll get reassigned back home. I miss it a lot. Sometimes I wake up and I just want to drive North West from the apartment to your cabin so we can head out and sail the whole day. And then just as I stand up to go eat and head out to come see you, I hit my head in the barracks and remember that I can't, and I look at your picture and then tuck it in my pocket. It's a perfect photo of you, by the way. You look amazing, like always. And thank you for not dying your hair like you said you might, you nearly gave me a heart attack. You know I like that hair. Your eyes sparkle in it, too. Like I said, you look incredible. Thanks for putting your place and the dock in there behind you, it helps me feel less homesick. As soon as I get back, I promise we'll take Madness out to Saltspring or Galliano or one of the other islands and camp for a week or something. It'll rock, just like old times. I wish we had more time to call old times. I'm so sorry I had to leave so soon, Dana. If I could control it, I would have stayed for a year or so longer, making more memories that keep pushing me through the rough days here._

_ And now I'm going to do something horrible. I know I shouldn't ask, but I have to. There are six girls on base with us, and I swear to God that all they ever complain about is how they need some new fucking bras. Seriously. I shouldn't do this, but we need them to shut up. So if you have any bras you don't really need or don't use, sports bras are apparently desirable as well, if you could send some over for them? It would not only make this war thing easier on them but help the rest of us guys out that don't have a damn clue what to do about it. I swear, if you do this, I will love you for freaking ever._

_ I also have another request as for what you could send over. There are some radio/CD players around base, but we never use them because nobody brought any music. You should record yourself and send us something to listen to. I know they'll love it. You're so much better than you think, Dana. It doesn't even have to be original stuff, just throw in a little bit of everything and we'll all be happy campers. Remember when we spent that night up in the tree house the night we graduated grade 12? We ate junk food, you had made cupcakes (you make the best, by the way), we saw meteors and challenged each other to a battle of naming constellations which I obviously won, despite what you may remember, we watched the sunset over the Pacific, and then you played the guitar and sang in the dark after the light slipped away. I will never forget how hauntingly beautiful it was. You played what, eight or ten songs that night? They were all perfect. And we were totally sober, too. I know you don't like the party sort of thing. It was a good thing, because I remember every detail of that night. I remember how your hair turned a fire red in the light of the sunset, I remember how you laughed at every really crappy joke I told, I remember when you got chocolate icing on your nose and I dared you to try and lick it off and you couldn't do it, I remember how I looked at your eyes most of the time because they always seemed to be changing and I loved each new shade even more than the last one, I remember your teal nails plucking at the guitar strings under the moonlight, and I remember your pale pink lips singing so softly it was like a whisper that sent a chill through my bones._

_ I remember kissing you that night on those pale pink lips. I don't regret anything, and I hope you don't, either._

_ The squad is leaving on a mission tomorrow for a month away from base. It's going to be the hardest and most dangerous one yet; the majority of it will be in enemy territory. I just thought I should let you know that if there will ever be an 'it' for me during this deployment, this will be that mission. I'll be careful, I promise. And I've got you, my little angel watching over me, right? Just say good morning and good night to me every day and I'll hear it. This is embarrassing, but just in case this is my last chance to tell you, I do imagine your voice saying those two things to me every day here. I think of you almost constantly when I've got down time. I've even dreamed about you a couple of times, and also had some nightmares. Of the enemy getting you, doing horrible things to you. I'm here to protect you, remember that always. And you __**will**__ be hearing from me in the next two months after this mission. Just a few more months, Dana. I want you to be the first person I see when I get off the plane just like you were the last person I saw when I left._

_ I miss you so much it __**hurts**__, Dana._

_ I need to sleep. Mission leaves in ten hours._

_ Take care of yourself. Your soldier is watching over you._

_ Yours forever,_

_ Adam xxxxx'_

I stare at the paper, and then look quickly at John. He had better not go back to the military, ever. If I got a letter like this from him I don't know what I would do. I would be just like I was before we met. This letter reminds me of the first day we met. Afghanistan or Iraq? The memory echoed through my head. I would be exactly the same as I was before I met him. Smoking cigarettes, shooting drugs every six months, talking to a skull, lighting toenails on fire. I look at Dana and I can _feel_ what her love is like now. It hurts, like Adam said. I check the date the letter was written.

_October 2, 2010_

Exactly one month ago today. His mission will end tomorrow. She will hear from him in the next two weeks or so, hopefully.

I look back at John sleeping. I put my hand on his shoulder and I just let it rest there. Making memories that will keep pushing me through each day.

I guess that is what Dana and I have in common, what result came out of our conversation.

We were both in love with a war hero.


End file.
